


The Glass Globe

by emblazonet



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Drama, Female Perspective, Female Relationships, Multi, Valinor, Years of the Trees, baby Fëanorians, domestic focus, historical indulgence, some angst because uh Fëanor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:25:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emblazonet/pseuds/emblazonet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Valinor during the Years of the Trees, a lonely elf-maid named Calmaránë befriends Fëanor. Afflicted with love for the unattainable, her friendship with Fëanor, Nerdanel and their family deepens until she becomes absorbed into the family—and all the griefs that lie in store for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peacetime

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extensive rewrite of a fairly awful melodramatic story I wrote at 15. ([It's still up at fanfic.net, actually.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2621260/1/The-Misshapen-Box)) I didn’t quite mean for this story to get out of hand (read: written at all), but I just ... needed to write it. IMO, a nuanced female perspective is severely lacking in Tolkien’s mythos, so the urge to correct that has influenced this story. In my rewrite, I ended up expanding Nerdanel's role, largely because I felt the original story did her a massive disservice. 
> 
> It's my personal headcanon that the houses of Elven princes have non-blood relatives who are members of the household, as it is in human societies. Perhaps not servants—I imagine the Elves are more egalitarian than that—but close family friends whose deeds are not so notable that they appear in the great histories (such as _The Silmarillion_ ). Thus, in my story, Calmaránë is such an Elf: one who does not belong in the histories, but who has lived through all the ages of the world, and who has rubbed shoulders with legends and known them as friends, enemies and—above all else—people.

In my time, I have seen the rise and fall of kings and armies, and seen great fortresses and hidden cities crumble. I have all but lost track of my years. I was born in Valinor, soon after the Noldor arrived. My mother named me Calmaránë, but the Sindar call me Únothriel, that is, the Kinless. That is because my mother grieved so much that my Teleri father had abandoned her to linger in Middle-Earth that she took to the Halls of Mandos soon after my birth. What my father may have named me, I will never know. I searched for him for a time, but never found him.

I get ahead of myself.

My mother left me with Marilë and Aicaner, whose deeds are few. They remained at peace in Valinor, and I hold their names dear to my heart. Like mother and father they were to me, though as my mother named me, I was a wanderer and a trial to them. I dwelt in Valinor in the years of the Two Trees, first a child and then a grown elf. Carelessly I dressed in all colours, and I sang to Yavanna and Elbereth, and danced as the light of the trees waxed and waned. I loved the trees—who could not?—and often went near them, to bask in their light and presence.

One day I lay beneath Telperion, listening to the wind rustle his leaves, and to the soft chime of silver dew falling. I was not often idle, but my cycle of creativity had waned, and I waited for it to burst anew, to force my hand to craft. Little did I love more than to write songs and make garments.

“My lady, surely your gown is ruined.” Those were the first words he spoke to me, Curufinwë whom you would call Fëanor. His voice had no match: smooth but with something of the crackle of fire beneath them. There was amusement in his tone.

I looked down at my gown. It was blue, like the sky when Laurelin’s light waxed brightest. I saw what Fëanor meant: Telperion’s dew had fallen upon my gown here and there and left shining splashes on my gown. But they shimmered as I moved. I looked up into Fëanor’s eyes, and though I knew him not, I glimpsed the truth of his nature straightaway. His eyes were at once grey and then shifting with hues, of blue or green or gold or silver.

“I do not think the gown ruined, Lord Fëanor,” I said, “instead, Telperion has blessed me.”

Fëanor laughed and came closer. “Indeed! Then take this blessing further, and wear silver to honour Telperion’s light, for Laurelin’s gold suits you not.”

The jewellery I wore at the time, a child’s set, was forged by my foster-father Aicaner, and it was indeed gold. I realized at once he was right, that on me it was garish.

“And I would change it, but I know none with the skill to forge silver.” I had few friends, and they were all bonded to other arts.

“None at all?” He sounded surprised. I suppose it is easy for the greatly gifted to forget that other people may have less talent, or more narrow interests.

“I have no father-name, I am almost alone in the world, and my mother—even as your own, if you’ll pardon me—dwells in the Halls of Mandos. I am Calmaránë.”

“Calmaránë.” Fëanor inclined his head. “I will craft you silver.” I laughed at him. Surely a great lord like Fëanor would not bother to honour such a careless vow.

Many weeks later, while I wandered on the soft grasses near the Two Trees, dreaming of melodies and songs, Fëanor came to me riding a grey horse. I had misjudged him. “As I promised you,” he told me, “I have crafted you silver.” He offered me the small jewellery chest he carried, made of black wood. I opened it. There were three slender bracelets, one fashioned like leaves, another knotted, and the last studded with diamonds. There were ear hangings, a circlet for my forehead, and necklaces. Of these, one I have kept through the ages. It lies on my breast still, untarnished, glowing faintly even after millennia. A simple glass globe on a fine chain, but it was filled with the dew of Telperion.

I stared at Fëanor in astonishment. “My lord, I cannot thank you enough. I did not imagine you would—“

”I needed to practice my skills.” He smiled. “If these trinkets bring you joy, then I have thanks enough.”

He bade me put them on, and laughed as I posed, the light glinting off his work. “How beautiful,” he said, but I wasn’t sure if he meant me or his own work. It was always hard to tell with Fëanor, whether he even noticed living things except as objects to inspire his work.

So we passed the day, admiring the jewellery, the beauty of the trees, talking as friends do. After that day I would have followed him anywhere. And in time, I did.

I thought, when Fëanor created the Silmarils, that he may have gained some part of his inspiration from my little globe of dew. Few know of my globe, for I wear it against my skin, and its glow is so faint, so faint. I suppose I should despise it for what it signifies, but I cannot. It was given to me in good faith, in innocence and friendship.

When Fëanor wed Nerdanel, I felt a kind of grief and was ashamed. Nerdanel was exquisite: red-haired, sharp-eyed, a skilled sculptor of note. I could not hate her. I was surprised at my feelings. I turned to a student of Aulë—not Mahtan, of course, but a lesser craftsman who found employ in cabinetry. I begged him to teach me, secretly thinking that if I perfected a new craft, I would distract myself from foolish thoughts and desires. I spent hours at my work, and loved it, and did not realize my own loneliness. I worked the long span of time between when I would see Fëanor again, and I despised the part of me that loved only to hear him speak, to watch him pace and talk and gesticulate as he spoke of his projects.

There was a little stream covered in willows, nearly on the other side of Tirion from my childhood home. If you sat beneath them, it was almost like being outside the city, for the thick fringes of leaves blocked out the white walls. It was sheer chance I was walking that way, returning from an errand for Aicaner my foster-father, when I saw Fëanor there, sitting alone.

“How is my lord on this morning?” I asked, folding myself down beside him. I set my basket beside me.

He turned and leaned his head on his arms, which were crossed over his knees. “Do you remember your mother, Cala?” he asked me. There were smudges on his cheeks and dirt under his nails. One of his braids was undone.

“Hardly. I remember her singing, sometimes. Sad, frustrated songs.”

“Singing,” said Fëanor.

“Did yours sing?”

But Fëanor didn’t answer. He wasn’t really looking at me, but—then he did. Fëanor’s attention was unnerving, as if he could consume a person, body and soul, simply by looking at them. “My mother would have grown to dislike me. Better that she did not linger.”

“That is the voice of grief,” I said—chided, really, but gently. “She loved you. You see every day how Nerdanel is with little Maitimo, don’t you?” For Maedhros the first-born was yet a toddler then. “She loves you. She waited until you were old enough not to need her, no? ”

Fëanor smiled distractedly. “Yes. You’re right of course. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

I would have been remiss in my duties as a friend if I did not press a little. But Fëanor had no intention of unburdening himself further. Nor did he feel the need to comfort me, whose mother had not even waited until I had grown to take her leave—but then, that is not a wound, but more like a childhood scar whose origin the adult has long forgotten. And besides, I had my foster-parents who loved me.

Our conversation became another, more mundane. But I was struck by his insecurities, of the newness of fatherhood. And, too, Nerdanel had gone to Indis for advice in the lore of motherhood—that I found out through the Noldorin grapevine, if you will. Not through Fëanor, who hated Indis bitterly. For my part, I hardly knew Indis. I was shy around the great lords and ladies, then, and all Vanyar especially. But I thought Fëanor foolish: all new mothers need counsel, and his sons benefited from Indis’s generosity. I could see how Nerdanel gained confidence in motherhood, how it made her smile and glow. Not all women are suited to motherhood, but Nerdanel thrived. She had a great strength and never faltered, neither through discomfort nor pain.

We became close, as my friendship with Fëanor deepened and I began to visit their sprawling home. I could not be jealous of Nerdanel, truly: Fëanor was an inconsistent husband, always busy in forge or workroom, though free with gifts; and anyway their sons were Nerdanel’s joy. I played with their children with a sort of wariness—motherhood would not be my fate in all the ages of the world. Nerdanel and I spent many afternoons speaking, singing, crafting together. In truth, we spoke more than I ever did with Fëanor. She was the better friend, but Fëanor was my oldest friend, and I loved him.

But my love for Fëanor changed. It hardened with patience; it bided within me. I loved his family though it was not mine. I sewed clothing for them, and sang songs with them, made them tables and harps and jewellery-boxes, and watched the rift between Fëanor and his half-brothers with distant sadness. What can you do, when your friend is torn with hate? I had no especial love for Fingolfin and Finarfin, perhaps, but they were great Noldor, and honourable. Fëanor had no patience for counsel.

“What do you know? You spend your time with the children. You’ve never spoken to Fingolfin or Finarfin, so don’t purport to know their minds!” he spat one day, as we walked through the inner courtyard of his home.

“I know you, and I know that hate is a poison,” I retorted.

“Know your place,” he said.

I stiffened. “My place.” He turned the fire of his gaze to me. I said icily, “You are right. My place is with Marilë and Aicaner.” And I turned on my heel and all but stamped out of his house, not quite slamming the doors behind me.

The home of my foster-parents was lower down than the towers of the great lords. It was a smaller dwelling than Fëanor’s, much smaller, being a home of three typical Noldor, who lived simple lives and made simple things and sang songs of hearth, home and reverence to the Valar. Aicaner had woven the hangings, and Marilë made many of the housewares, and my work filled the home also. The light of the Trees shone through the airy rooms, reflected in many mirrors. I was content there. I lived in love and light and wanted nothing—except that now I caught myself frowning into the mirrors. I grew frustrated with my crafts. No song I sang sounded right, I sewed my finger to my gown by accident, I had no patience for jewellery-making. I seethed.

Many days later, there came a knock on the door. Nerdanel stood there, with Maitimo and little Makalaurë holding his big brother’s hand. “I haven’t seen you in too long,” said Nerdanel cheerfully. She had a basket in her arms, full of braided bread and a bottle of wine. “I thought we could sit and eat.”

I’m not entirely certain how we all ended up at the table, because I started crying. I had been so lonely. But Makalaurë climbed into my lap and hummed nervously, unsure why I was upset, and Maitimo was setting the table, and Nerdanel put a glass of wine in my hand and said, “Drink up, that’s a dear.” And then, her voice so dry my tears nearly evaporated right there, “I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s my husband that’s put you out of sorts.”

“Well,” I said.

“Don’t you bother making excuses for him,” she said. “I don’t care about that. He shouldn’t be allowed near you if he’s going to insult you—the nerve!—but I missed you. I won’t press you to come around, though you know you’re always welcome, but I will come and bother you instead.”  
I drank. The wine’s flavour over my tongue brought my spirits up wonderfully. “That’s your husband you’re scolding.”

“That’s my job,” said Nerdanel. “Adults were children once and keep something of childishness in them forever. So sometimes they argue over silly things.” She smiled at Maitimo and Makalaurë, who grinned sheepishly back. I gathered they had had a silly argument that morning.

“I’d like it if you came back,” Makalaurë said, tugging my hair gently.

“I’d like to come back,” I said honestly.

Maitimo nodded firmly. “Then Atto should apologize.”

I laughed. “Well, let’s not ask for too much.”

When they left, as Laurelin’s light waned and Telperion’s waxed, I felt much better. I sang as I tidied everything, kissed Marilë and Aicaner, who were in and out again, and then I began to plan a dress for Nerdanel, who needed more lovely gowns to wear now that she was pregnant again.

Time passed. I drew out patterns for Nerdanel’s dress, compared fabrics, took breaks, wandered through the city, revised the patterns.

Then there was a knock on the door.

I thought it would be Nerdanel.

It was Fëanor, dressed in wine-red and silver, and looking very fine indeed. “Please,” he said, “walk with me.”

I did. We were silent for a time. We walked through a garden, ascending a flower-fringed lawn. I fingered my glass globe. Fëanor eyed it. Actually, he looked everywhere but at my face. After some time he said, “I am sorry. I was rude.”

I nodded. “Yes. You were.”

He flinched. “Don’t feel as if our home is no longer open to you.”

“Nerdanel spoke to you.”

“She is right, as she so often is.” The smile he wore then was not for me; it was his private, thinking-of-Nerdanel smile. I was no longer even jealous of that. Only a trifle sad.

I forgave him, of course. After that, I did not bring up the subject of his half-brothers again. I finished the dress for Nerdanel, and her thanks lit a happy flame inside me. Life resumed its course. Nerdanel gave birth, again and again, and as her sons grew they called me ‘aunt’. 

Things soured when Fëanor made the Silmarils.

You are expecting that. You know the histories. It didn’t start out sour at all. We were all of us—and I speak for all the Noldor here, and probably the Vanyar and even the Valar too—very impressed. Three gems resplendent with the light of the Trees. Fëanor wore them on his brow at the great feasts, at the festivals, when he was feeling important. I held one, once, in the early days before the jealousy took hold of him. But in all fairness I loved my little globe of Telperion’s dew more, for I was not enamoured with the grandiose, excepting the body and mind of Fëanor himself. He was worth more than the jewels. And the Trees were greater still, and their light purer, and their purpose unsullied even to the bitter end.

What purpose had the Silmarils, truly? To be coveted? And what purpose is that, I want to know. In innocence we rejoiced in the things of beauty, and Melkor came among us, and our voices lifted in song wavered. And Fëanor began to hide the jewels.

The fashion started at this time, too, driven by words of rebellion started by Melkor: to forge swords and wear them at the hips, to fit chainmail beneath velvet tunics, to learn the art of fencing and the use of the spear. Such arts intrigued me and I learned them. Few were the female elves who did so, but we were not wholly uncommon. I learned, and so did Galadriel—yes, she who became Lady of Lorien. When we met at the practice courts, I knew her as Nerwen, the nickname she kept for her own. She knew me for the confidante of Fëanor’s house, so she often made time to spar and talk with me. Truly, she seemed to know everyone. She loved to know all that happened and the motives that caused them; but also she was restless, and ever watching for allies. It was in her to rule, always.

Nerdanel had no interest in swords. “I dislike this agitation, it is caused by _him_ … Melkor should not come among us. The unrest will only hurt us. And it is not like Fëanor to hide his creations. To speak of leaving Valinor…! He will not listen to Melkor; but he will not acknowledge how Melkor’s words have shaped his thinking.” Sometimes I sparred with Fëanor and his sons, who were all grown now, inside the practice-room he had built. Nerdanel never came to watch.

After swords-practice one day, Fëanor clapped me on the shoulder. We were alone, we were panting; it had been a long match. “When you create a proper war-shield, or have one created,” he said, as a bead of sweat ran down the line of his throat, “make sure it has the device of my House on it.”

I stared at him, lost for words.

“You are a member of the household, Cala,” he said, smiling, “don’t look so surprised!”

Marilë and Aicaner were healers and craftspeople with no interest in rebellion. They had no interest in the House of Fëanor, no interest in the rumours of Melkor. They had done their part for me. I had grown, and like a bird flown far from the nest I could not come back; things had changed utterly in that moment when I allowed Fëanor to seal my fate. 

A short span of time later, I had moved my possessions into an unused chamber in his house, the one Nerdanel had long set aside for me. Marilë and Aicaner I kissed good-bye, not realizing that it was the last time I would see them.

I was arranging the furniture in my new chamber to my satisfaction when Nerdanel came to me, in a fine diaphanous gown set with many shimmering gemstones. Her fiery hair was coiled and bound with glittering chains. Her exquisite face was pinched with worry. “Finwë has called the lords to council. Fëanáro goes too far, Cala. I don’t know what will be decided. He isn’t speaking to me. He isn’t.”

“He always regrets it when he doesn’t listen to you,” I said, and that was true; although I thought foremost of the domestic disputes I was privy to, such as Nerdanel warning Fëanor not to say something to the twins, which he then inevitably would, causing much wailing and shrieking. Still, wisdom is wisdom.

“Come with me, Cala,” Nerdanel said. “We’ll wait in the square.”

We sat together on a bench beneath Galathilion the white tree, in full sight of the doors of Finwë’s house. We could hear nothing that went on inside. “Shouldn’t you be inside?” I said. “You are counted among the wise.”

“He left without telling me,” said Nerdanel. She was tight as a harpstring, her hands clenched in her laps. “He didn’t tell anyone to tell me.” She had sent another close family friend to fetch her sons, only to be told they had gone with their father. A great many other Noldor who knew of the council trickled into the square. Everyone was speaking all around us. Some sided with the Valar, some spoke ill of the Valar; so it was for Fëanor—there were those who scorned his pride, though they would look at Nerdanel and lower their voices when they saw her sharp eyes watching.

Nerdanel jumped to her feet when Fingolfin strode from the doors. The square was instantly quiet, as if a great hand had gathered away all speech. Fingolfin was unusually pale, his lips pressed in a hard line. When Fëanor marched out behind him, his tall crimson plume streaming behind him, Nerdanel reached out and seized my hand. Fëanor had drawn his sword.

And that was the moment he lifted his sword and set it at his half-brother’s breast. Fury blazed on Fëanor’s face like the light of a Silmaril; fear and anger and frustration and sorrow passed over Fingolfin’s in quick succession. As Fëanor threatened Fingolfin with blade and words, Nerdanel tightened her hand on mine until I nearly gasped in pain, and I squeezed back to comfort her.

No sooner had Fëanor spoken his piece but a negation of light fell on the square. I don’t know how to describe it as ought than that. We were instantly dismayed. The manifestation of the will of Manwë ordered Fëanor and all involved to come at once to the Ring of Doom. I was involved, whether I wished it or not.

I went with Nerdanel, and I stood beside her while she watched upset and angry as Mandos passed his judgement on Fëanor. You already know that story.

We had no sooner returned to Tirion then the House of Fëanor began to pack and organize itself for exile. I had a choice to make.

“You don’t have to come,” said Nerdanel.

“You are a member of my house, are you not?” said Fëanor.

I remembered the feel of the sword and the shield on my arm, and Fëanor telling me I had the right to wear his device of the many-pointed star.

I followed Fëanor to exile in Formenos.


	2. Formenos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exile of Fëanor and the building of Formenos. Indulgent details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided that Cala is telling this to an actual character, a lady-historian from Gondor. As she tells her tale, they are sipping tea as the leaves fall around them in the Grey Havens. The last ships are leaving, and soon Cala will also go.

The House of Fëanor rode out of Tirion when the light of the Two Trees was mingling; Laurelin’s waxing and Telperion’s waning. The city was fey and shimmering, and a mist had risen over the streets. We wound down to the gates, Finwë and Fëanor at the lead, with the seven sons behind, and then we lesser Noldor of the Household. The others were helpers of Fëanor, who assisted with his less secretive projects, and who helped keep the house for him. Many were masons among their other talents.

Nerdanel stayed behind, with Indis. Ultimately, she had decided against going. She was angry with Fëanor. I had known they had visited each other less and less, but I could not imagine going into exile without her. And when I told her that I had made my decision to be loyal to Fëanor, she turned her back to me and bade me leave. But her voice was heavy with grief. I reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Oh, Cala,” she said, turning at once and hugging me. “I can’t be angry with you. I’m frustrated with Fëanáro. How can he not see how warped his thinking is? I hate him utterly, while my love remains. And my sons will leave me too. I didn’t want to believe—”

“I’ll watch out for them,” I promised. Nerdanel’s hand tightened over mine.

As we rode north and east, on that first day of exile, the mountains reared high to our right. Maitimo turned his horse’s head and rode back down the line to speak to me. We stopped and let our horses graze, to let the party continue on without us and give us space.

“Aunt,” said Maitimo, “do you miss your father and mother? I mean, your foster parents?”

My horse reached his red neck out to lip at a faraway branch. I let him step towards his desire. “Not terribly, yet,” I said. “I have not been a child for such a long time. And I think I am closer to your family now.”

“I am glad Atar convinced you to join us,” said Maitimo, smiling suddenly. He had his mother’s smile, wide and warm, and his mother’s hair like fire on his shoulders; but his bone structure, and the way he moved sometimes, with a restless grace: that was Fëanor. And yet he was neither, and himself. It was strange to me how the sons differed from their parents. “I would have missed you.”

I smiled back, flattered despite myself. “I would have missed you too. All of you.” But when I looked closely at his face, behind his grey eyes, I saw sadness there. “But come. You’re not riding with me to simply pass the time. Tell me what troubles you.”

Maitimo frowned and looked to where the others were fading in the distance. “I don’t want you to think I’m silly.”

“Never that. You have your mother’s level-headed nature,” I said. I meant that. Maitimo was the calmest, who shouldered responsibility without complaint. All of the sons were merry at play, with ready smiles and passion, but Maitimo would sober first. It comes of being the eldest. How often had he been entrusted with his brothers? Countless games and hunts and mock-tournaments and explorations beyond Tirion. I would see them as grim warlords covered in blood: but they are brightest in my memory as youths.

I am sidetracking myself again. Forgive me. I had meant to tell this straightforwardly.

“I’m not level-headed at all!” Maitimo cried out, hands curling into fists. His horse swung her black head around and eyed him reproachfully. “I’m confused, and sad, and I don’t understand why things are changing. I don’t want to leave him behind, Aunt, it’s too much.”

“Who?”

Maitimo bit his lip.

“I am hardly the counselor of your father’s heart,” I said, and if it came out sardonic and bitter, well, that had not been my intent. “You may tell me secrets, and I will keep them. I promise.”

“Findekáno,” he said.

“Pardon me? Fingolfin’s eldest?”

“My friend,” said Maitimo fiercely. Ah. There was his father’s fire. “He’s my friend. I don’t care that Atar doesn’t like Uncle Fingolfin! Findekáno said he’d always be my friend. But I won’t see him for such a long time. Will we still be friends? Should I miss him? I do, but I saw him not two hours ago.”

“Let’s start moving,” I said. My horse had finally tired of eating bushes. We kicked our horses, trotting until we had the party in firm view, then slowing again. “What do you think, in your heart? If the love is sure, it will last.” I could not see Fëanor from this distance, only the far flashing gleam of the Silmarils on his brow.

Maitimo slumped. “But I don’t want to disappoint Atar. I think he might know how much time I spend with Findekáno, but I don’t want to seem disloyal. I know this only happened because Atar was angry with Uncle.”

“Findekáno had no part of that,” I pointed out. “I’m sure Fëanor won’t mind your friendship, even should he find out. You are not your father and neither is Findekáno his.”

“I’m glad to say it aloud though,” Maitimo said. He kneed his horse close to mine. He reached out and grabbed my hand. “You’re always so easy to talk to! You never judge anyone. Even Ammë judges, she’s just so quiet about it.”

I harbour a wretched love. That is what I thought then. How could I speak of it to Maitimo? I did not want to bear children—not even Fëanor’s—and I did not want that Maitimo and his brothers had never been born, for I loved them. But Fëanor I wanted. And I hid that within myself, and buried it as well I could. I could not look in Maitimo’s face, I could not bear to see the kindness and love I would see if I looked.

“Judging,” I said evenly, staring at the grasses, “is a useful skill, a tool to be used. But tools are not made for every job. I am glad I could help, even if it be only through simple words.”

Maitimo’s hand in mine was dry and soft. I wished I could take comfort from touch, but I was scared. Laurelin’s light had surpassed Telperion’s now, and the land was gilded: the grasses a sea of gold, the mountains crowned with radiance. Marilë and Aicaner’s home was no longer mine. I had cast my lot with this princely family, and I would have to make myself a new life.

“Tell me about Findekáno,” I said. “Take solace in the good memories.”

Maitimo let go of my hand. “He’s an adventure!” he said.

“More so than Tyelcormo?” I teased.

“Less impulsive,” Maitimo said. “Thankfully. I don’t mean we get into trouble, I just mean that everything’s more fun if Findekáno’s around. When we were children, he was always sneaking inside my room and dragging me out for walks beneath Telperion’s light. We’d walk on the walls and climb the roofs and pretend to be beasts in the hills. He said I’d be an excellent panther, because I could sneak up on people!”

I laughed. “I’m jealous,” I said. “I never had such a friend.”

“When you and Atar were little, did you ever sneak away and play together? Or you and Ammë?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Fëanáro and I were full adults when we met. We never played games together.”

“Oh.” Maitimo shook his head. “I didn’t realize. I should have known. All these years and I always thought...”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “we’re around the same age, so it’s only natural. I don’t know what your Atar was like as a child. I imagine he was very driven and full of energy.”

“He didn’t change much.”

I looked away, at the golden mountains. The wind stirred through my hair. We were riding close to a copse of mallorn trees, and I saw the silver whisk of a squirrel’s tail in the shadows of their trunks. “Some. He has grown in craft and skill. He has fathered wonderful sons.”

“He is an incredible artist,” said Maitimo proudly. “He is a great treasure of the Noldor people. I can’t believe they wouldn’t listen to his wisdom at the council!”

Drawing a sword on his brother? Was that wisdom? Nerdanel would not say so. “He can be wise,” I said guardedly.

“His aspirations are noble,” said Maitimo. “He would be a fine king.”

“Finwë is king.”

“Across the sea, I mean. What a kingdom he would make!”

"I would not want to leave Valinor, but perhaps it is become small for your Atar. What city would he design? Shining towers that pierce the sky, a hundred glittering banners, great dances in the parks and squares, tree-lined avenues dressed in a hundred jewels.”

“Doesn’t sound too far off from Tirion,” Maitimo said teasingly.

“Well, it would be lovelier than Tirion,” I said.

We grinned at each other.

“Race you to the group!” Maitimo said suddenly. “Hyah!” His horse leapt forward, a swift shadow.

I kicked my horse lightly. “Noro linta,” I cried to my horse. “Run swiftly!” She launched into a gallop, and I laughed merrily, wind in my hair, balanced over my horse’s withers. Maitimo’s hair streamed like a banner of flame: that was my goal and I fixed my eyes on it. Hoofbeats shook the earth. We fair flew across the land, letting our horses run as fast as they liked; and we yelled, coaxing them faster. My horse Carnisúle went nose-to-nose with Maitimo’s mare.

We scattered the House of Fëanor. Horses broke away from our line-of-flight, snorting and trotting and twitching their tails, riding-horses and pack-horses altogether, as Maitimo and I whooped and yelled, passing them all before slowing our horses and trotting them back. We’d tied, and wore matching identical grins.

“Why didn’t you tell me there was a race?” Tyelcormo yelled.

Finwë arched his eyebrows. I passed Fëanor and met his eyes—though it was hard to make them out beneath the radiance of the Silmarils. He was dressed in cloth-of-silver robes that reflected the Silmaril’s light, the shape of his body enhanced by embroideries. At once I felt flustered. How must I look in comparison, with my hair in disarray, my riding-tunic rumpled, breathless and panting? I felt heat in my cheeks.

Something shifted in his gaze as he looked at me. Immediately, I looked away. What had that been? What change was this? Something had happened. Some other fire had leapt in his eyes, and I mistrusted it.

We made camp at the site where we would build Formenos. We had enough tents for everyone twice over—we had not packed light, and more supplies would be sent to us. Some tents went unused—and besides that, some did not choose to sleep in them. Tyelcormo and Curvo shared a tent, and Ambarussa (both of them) did as well. I took a tent alone. I was long accustomed to riding out alone to visit the Two Trees, and sleeping alone beneath the sacred light, so I found my tent comfortable.

That first ‘night’ of Telperion’s light I lay in my tent and listened to the call of owls and wolves, the rustling of creatures, the wind in the grass. Horses and elves stirred now and then. What would become of us? How would exile change us? I had never imagined great changes could come to us, living under the light of the Trees, under the aegis of the Valar. But I sensed something huge was coming, a sea-change that I could not imagine. I shivered though it was not especially cold. I missed Nerdanel fiercely.

We built Formenos. Helping us, too, were those that trickled out of Tirion to bring us mortar and wood and stone and whatever else we needed. Some—many—stayed. Fëanor could not return to Tirion, but interested and supportive parties could come to him, and did. We laid a foundation of stone. I did not like the work, but in some ways I did not mind it. We set up a roster of duties under Fëanor’s guidance. I was always happier when it was my turn to hunt. I would ride hard and fast, and sometimes Makalaurë, or Ambarussa, or whomever I rode with, would call to me to slow, to ready my bow and attend to our purpose. Now that I was out of Tirion, away from walls, I was loathe to build more.

Fëanor had a different project. He also built a great iron chamber to house his treasures. I wanted nothing to do with it. While he built the chamber, with his hair tightly braided, wearing smutched clothing and a patched apron, there was a dark light in his eyes.

Formenos reared out of the mountains, bristling with towers and fortifications. It was larger than any palace in Tirion. Its thick walls belied its wide and spacious rooms. Fell from the outside, inside it was radiant. Cunning mirrors caught and magnified the light of the trees, and where that light could not come were hung hundreds of lanterns on glittering strings. Each son had a study and workroom.

The day we were to move out of the tents, Fëanor showed me the rooms he’d gifted me. (He had done the same for his father and each son. Fëanor so loved to be praised.) “Your room has the most Tree-light of any in Formenos,” he told me. As yet it was barren, with only a rudimentary bed and a table, and so much floor-space it felt like a ballroom. Adjoined was a bathing-pool I could almost swim in. I found out later that even the privy seats were heated. There was a balcony, too, that looked out to Ezellohar and the Two Trees.

“Thank you,” I said, and smiled brightly at him. I touched the globe at my neck. I hadn’t meant to. Fëanor, standing in the full of Laurelin’s light, noted the movement of my hand. I couldn’t define the expression on his face. He had seemed more unknowable than ever, as of late.

“You’re welcome,” he said abruptly, and swept out of the room.

So there I dwelled. I took a workroom not far from Fëanor's forge. I wrought furniture to suit me: a writing-desk, a canopied bed, bed-tables and wardrobes and chests and whatever else I fancied. I inlaid the wood with gold and silver, most often in the shape of the Two Trees we Eldar love so much. I had carpets made of the pelts of wolf and mink and rabbit, and tapestries I wove on windy cold days, depicting the sons of Fëanor hunting, or the raising of Formenos. I wove one that showed the house of Marilë and Aicaner, and our little neighbourhood in Tirion.

Others, loyal to Fëanor or Finwë or both, but not so close to the family, occupied Formenos’ many apartments. Weapons were forged, and many armed. Fëanor did not trust his brother Fingolfin, but it was more than that, there was Melkor at large, and the ominous threat of some strife lying in wait. I could not shake off the feeling that Fëanor was readying a personal army.

And as promised, a war-shield was made for me, emblazoned with the many-pointed star of the House of Fëanor. I bore it proudly to my room and mounted it on the wall—I had no use for it yet—and there it stayed. In practice we used wooden swords, wooden spears, wooden shields. There was no sense in damaging good arms in sport.

When the furniture was finished, I had little else to occupy my time. I spent hours stretching and practicing with my wooden sword and spear, and sparring when others were free. I was not the least of the warriors, and I was quicker than some. But neither was I a close match for the best: and among those were Fëanor and his sons.

There were still so many more years of exile to go. I needed a new purpose, an obsession. You may not be surprised to hear that it was Fëanor who provided me this needed new direction.


	3. Fëanorian Lamps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calmáranë sets out to create unfading light, thanks to—or in spite of—Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried some world-building here, and took some strong liberties with the canon. Why wouldn't the Noldor have silly folklore from their pre-Valinor days?

I should tell you about the lamps, because it was in Formenos that I grew into the other half of my name, so to speak.  
  
It was perhaps not yet two years—Valian years, mind—into our stay at Formenos. I was bored and lonely. I wandered one dewy morning in the Garden of Little Flowers, over a green carpet splashed with moss and sweet woodruff and lissuin, and lamium both purple and white; and epimedium like coloured stars; and bunchberry. A mallorn here and there leaned against the outer walls with elanor at the roots. This garden was walled by a low stone fence. As Laurelin's light waxed, spears of golden light breached the wall and reached across the ground. The brightest appeared as a path, and with a delight I hadn't felt in some time, I hitched up my grey skirts and, careful of their lace overlay, skipped along the beam of light.  
  
Somehow, I was not overly surprised to find that it led out of the Garden towards Fëanor's forge and workrooms. The door was open. I stood before it and struggled awhile with myself.  
  
I stepped in, mindful of debris on the stone floor. The first room was really a kind of antechamber or showpiece, ringed with tables bearing finished or discarded projects (mostly jewellery or small pieces) in some semblance of order. Farther in was a big room filled with clutter, workbenches and bookshelves and tools and materials, and through it was the forge, kept far enough apart that flammable materials would not be endangered.  
  
Fëanor leaned on a table in the middle room, crystals and glass scattered around him. He wore simple trousers and a tunic, and an apron over it; and his hair was tied back and braided.  
  
"Fëanáro," I said.  
  
He started and whirled around, but when he saw me, he relaxed visibly, although his mouth was taut.  
  
"I am pleased to see you, too," I said.  
  
"Cala. You're not dressed to work."  
  
I lifted my eyebrows. "I was not aware I needed to be."  
  
Fëanor paced towards me, rubbing his hands absentmindedly. "I think I do need you. Cala, what do you make of this?"  
  
He handed me schematics for a wardrobe. I glossed over them, but then I noticed the smug smile on Fëanor's face and I looked more closely. "Two wardrobes, with false—false backs?"  
  
"They're doors, secrets. A gift for Ambarussa and Ambart—"  
  
"To connect Ambarussa's rooms!" I cut him off. It amused me utterly that Ambarussa referred to themselves as such, and only Fëanor ever called the youngest 'Ambarto.'  
  
"I thought it would appeal to their youth," said Fëanor. "I had something similar done up in their rooms in Tirion, and they seemed a little sadder than the others to be in Formenos. I thought this would comfort them."  
  
"They do miss their friends and their classes and workshops," I said.  
  
"And since you are the finest woodworker in Formenos—"  
  
"I am?"  
  
"—I thought I'd enlist your help."  
  
To be sure, Fëanor's skill as smith and jeweller are immortalized in every history. No one has ever surpassed him. And he is—was—competent at any art he turned his mind to, and his skill at woodworking was very great. I assumed that he meant the finest save him, and I fair blushed at the compliment.  
  
'Help' in this case meant handing tools, cutting wood to exact dimensions, doing the less fine detail work, and finally, as Laurelin's light was waning, I reached the end of my capabilities.  
  
"But I can't work with glass, I've never worked with glass," I found myself explaining. The both of us were covered in sawdust, we'd hardly even had a break. It had been an absorbing day.  
  
"Never?" asked Fëanor in some surprise.  
  
I shook my head. "Lack of resources, of time."  
  
"We'll remedy that at once. I'll teach you to blow it and shape it."  
  
And that was how I became apprenticed, as it were, to Fëanor, greatest craftsman in any age.  
  
I regretted it almost at once. Fëanor was not a patient teacher. It was why his sons so often went hunting, or took classes at things their father had less interest in. I spent most of my time that was not spent actually blowing glass biting my tongue. The forge was hot, the glass was hot, I was sweating and frustrated and tired long before I had made anything half-decent.  
  
"I suppose it will take you some time to have the mastery of it," Fëanor said finally, looking at my shapeless blobs of cooling glass.  
  
I drooped, and felt that I was disappointing him: thin-lipped, scowling Fëanor. Then I took a hold of myself. I was not his daughter. I was his equal in age, his friend.  
  
"As it is with all crafts," I said, my eyes narrowing. Fëanor blinked at me, and his expression relaxed somewhat.  
  
He said, "Then you will be my assistant when I make the full panes." The flat pieces of glass were to be mirrors set into the doors of the wardrobes.  
  
The next morning, after a much-needed break, we set to work again on the wardrobes, starting with the glass panes. When they were completed, many days later, they were magnificent: made of nessamelda wood, which is dark red-brown but without the purple qualities in the mahogany you are familiar with. Nessamelda smells almost like honey and cassia, and even carved it will bear that scent forevermore. The wood was heavily carved on the front with breezy, elegant designs, enhanced with gold and silver, depicting hounds and horses at the hunt on a windy day. The glass mirrors were on the inside of the door, and around the edges looped frosty swirls.  
  
The way the Ambarussas's eyes sparkled when we presented the wardrobes to them was more than enough thanks for our labours. They laughed as we installed them, and they played, running in and out of the door-wardrobes, their boots thumping on the wooden floors. They were still very slender and wide-eyed, and short, not yet adults. They piled on top of me to hug me, and it was rather like hugging sleek wriggling hounds. Their russet hair spilled over my hands.  
  
Afterwards I expanded my own workshop to be suitable for glass-blowing and related work, and I began to teach myself how to master the art of glass. It took some time to become competent enough to suit me. Not the full length of a Valian year, but close enough. I began to make bottles and globes, and I coloured them and tinted them whenever I could. It is one of my favourite crafts, and for many long years during the wars I was not often able to indulge in it.  
  
I still kept up my other crafts. I wrote songs and accompanied Makalaurë with his songs—he had far surpassed my skill at this time, but that did not diminish the pleasure. And I hunted with the other brothers, though I enjoyed the ride and not so much the killing.  
  
And Finwë, who had been King of the Noldor for all my life, sometimes would talk to me of his first wife, Fëanor's mother, Míriel Þerinde. Mind, I was a member of Fëanor's House: we kept Þ. But it was not to unburdening his heart that Finwë spoke to me; I was not close with him, and he frightened me a little, for I so wished to make a good impression on him. No, instead he knew that I loved to weave and sew. Many intricate patterns beloved of Míriel he taught me, and in return I used these to make elaborate clothes for Finwë and his sons and grandsons. It wasn't only me; I had many female friends that sewed and sang with me.  
  
Ruivien was one such. Her delight was beadwork; to Míriel's intricate designs she added sparkle and flair. She had rich brown hair tinged with red in bright light, eyes dark like the star-studded beyond, and we were lovers for almost all the time I was in Formenos.  
  
Lovers, yes. She was not the first, but she was the first to whose bed I went regularly. I do not know how I feel about this now. We delighted in the flesh; we delighted in conversation, but ere the darkening of the world we drifted apart, less than friends but certainly not enemies.  
  
But I was talking about lamps. Forgive my old mind, for it loves to walk in circles.  
  
I still worked with Fëanor, often going to his forge to learn and pick up tips. The learning was difficult: he either lectured in a distracted, quick-paced babble, or he was distant and reticent. I went to him because what I learned from sifting through the disorganization of his teaching was valuable, tricks to make my crafting easier or more beautiful. I learned a faster way to facet gems, I learned better how to control the breath to coax glass to perfection. But most of all, I went and struggled because I loved him.  
  
This day, he was especially distracted. I wanted to laugh at him. His hair was coiled and pinned on one side of his face, and crimped and tangled and hanging loose and wild on the other side, and he kept brushing it back impatiently. He was trying to straighten stubborn lengths of wire, which he was laying in a thick, elaborate metal braid.  
  
He didn't even know I was there. I wandered around his bookshelves, since he had never told me I couldn't.  
  
I plucked a scroll from the pile, because it was written in blue ink and red. It was a schematic. Fëanor's smudged tengwar was hard to read, being hasty scribbles. The writing surrounded drawings of crystal facets and flames and arrows flowing in the direction of light.  
  
"An eternal lamp?" I called out to him.  
  
He looked over, eyebrows raised, and noted the schematic in my hand. "Nothing so wondrous as my Silmarils," he said. I hated the way his voice caressed the syllables of 'Silmaril.' Once, he had spoken of Nerdanel that way, but when he had, his voice had been warmer. "Not the mingled light of the Trees, not so grand nor glorious. No, I thought more of starlight, or the lesser light of flame. Only a lamp that glows forever, with no need for fuel." It was a frequent complaint of his: that the Silmarils would shine forever, but lesser lights perforce ran out.  
  
I scanned the document, looking for a date. "An idea you were playing with before you made the Silmarils."  
  
"Yes. But they were not created to be so functional."  
  
A pity, I thought but did not say. That Fëanor was talking with me, as an equal even, meant that I was loathe to bring up any subject that might rile him. And while he liked to boast of the Silmarils, he rarely liked anyone else to talk much of them.  
  
"May I have these?" I asked.  
  
Fëanor chuckled. "If you want. I never succeeded in making them. Presumably they can be done. I just never got around to it." He shrugged and turned back to the circlet he was making. From the tourmalines scattered around the workbench, I suspected it was for Makalaurë.  
  
I took the plans away to my workshop and there I began to draw plans of my own.  
  
The idea was to capture and trap light using the correct angle and size of facets in crystal. Simple clear quartz would do, I thought, tapping the end of my charcoal stick against my mouth. I was always doing that, and Ruivien always chiding me, for she would kiss me and make a face at the lingering taste.  
  
Ruivien was a welcome distraction to my work, and reminded me to eat and sing and socialize—and attend to other, especially enjoyable, needs.  
  
The problem of the lamps ate up days. I thought, and dreamed, and calculated, and began to carve crystals to various specifications. Frequently I would see Fëanor in the evenings in the Hall of Kindling, where often we of the household would eat and tell tales and laugh and Makalaurë and any others who desired to would sing and play instruments. There were board games, too; tactical games and their creation were a hobby Fëanor's sons shared.  
  
"How goes the lamps?" Fëanor would ask, a mocking twinkle in his eye. Smugness skewed his smile.  
  
"I am closer," I would say, and grit my teeth. I would calculate in my head, toy with the model crystals I carried in the pockets of my gowns, and think and think.  
  
"You'll make a lamp one day," said Fëanor one night. I could tell by the twitch of his mouth and the glint in his eye that he was teasing. He didn't think I could do it.  
  
The wind was a hard roil of leaves. We of the household gathered in the Hall of Kindling, and lit many torches and the great fire in the centre. There were riddle-games and song-contests. The latter Makalaurë won of course—the talk amongst the close retainers and the other sons was that Makalaurë should be banned, but in the middle of the discussion Tyelcormo yelled that Makalaurë should sing for us, and everyone agreed and settled down around the tables. I poured wine for myself and Ruivien and Maitimo.  
  
A contented sigh rippled down the hall as Makalaurë drew his fingers over his harp. He began a narrative-song, one more poetry than melody, telling the story of the elflings who had been lost in the woods ere the Vanyar came to Valinor: that was a silly story involving a bear and a firebird, and the call-and-response chorus was well-known, and so lively even Fëanor's and Finwë's eyes were sparkling with good humour.  
  
A forest of trees sprung up around us all, and we saw the elflings blunder into the bear. Makalaurë's illusions were particularly detailed: I could see spider webs glinting in the starlight.  
  
I pulled one of the model crystals from my pocket and began to roll it between my fingers, idly, not quite paying attention as I sang along to the chorus. Makalaurë came to the part in the song where the firebird trills—ey-A, ey-A, ey-A-eee!  
  
The model crystal sparkled. I stared down at it. Makalaurë trilled, and it flashed distinctly again. I looked around. No one else noticed. Frowning, I turned it in my hands. It was perhaps little warmer than my hands, cooling as rotated it.  
  
Just then, Huan—Tyelcormo's puppy, leggy and half-grown—nosed me for treats, breaking my concentration on the crystal and the illusory forest Makalaurë had crafted. Tyelcormo was fitting himself between Ruivien and Maitimo.  
  
I entirely forgot about the sparkling crystal until later, when people began to disperse. I caught up to Makalaurë, chasing him out of the hall. "Do me a favour, won't you?"  
  
We were in a gallery between the Garden of Little Flowers and the Hall of Kindling. The rain-sprinkled wind blew in through the stone pillars. Our sleeves and robes and hair billowed around us, and dried leaves skittered across the stones. No one else was around.  
  
Makalaurë shivered and shrugged. "Can we do it somewhere warm?"  
  
We re-entered Formenos near the kitchens. I said, "I just need you to sing the firebird's part again."  
  
Makalaurë raised his eyebrows. "Aunt Cala?"  
  
"It's for a project," I said, holding up the model crystal. I could have done it myself, but I didn't quite trust my eyes. I was too full of hope.  
  
He looked confused, but shrugged and lifted his voice: ey-A, ey-A, ey-A-eee!  
  
At each A the model crystal flashed. "Hold that note," I instructed. As he sang it, I joined in. The whitish-blue light stayed in the crystal, and began to grow. Makalaurë stopped singing in surprise. The light continued to glow steadily.  
  
I stopped. As the sound died, so too did the light, fading into nothingness.  
  
I grasped Makalaurë's arm. "Thanks," I said, and turned on my heel, calling back, "I think you just solved a mystery!"  
  
"Don't I get an explanation?" Makalaurë called wistfully.  
  
"Later," I promised. It only occurred to me later how like his father I had sounded. Fëanor was so very good at shutting his sons out of his work.  
  
It was less a matter of music, I thought as I pored over my and Fëanor's notes. It was a question of will. I wanted light; the resonance of the note had fitted with the construction of the crystal, and so I could create light. But I could not trap it nor keep it. It was not like starlight, or like the light of the Trees. Those lights were pure magic, of the Valar. This stuff was more like an echo of that strength. And anyway, Fëanor alone knew how he had caught those lights. Perhaps he could have solved this puzzle, but it was clear he had not the patience: and anyway my pride told me I could keep up with him.  
  
More and more these days as I passed by Fëanor's workshop, picking up this tool or exchanging that, I saw him working closely with Atarinkë, the only son who took almost as much joy in Fëanor's craft as Fëanor himself. It made me smile to see them, wearing identical brow-furrows, streaked with forge-sweat. Sometimes I stayed and listened: and watching this way I learned much.  
  
I put together pieces of the puzzle, bit by painstaking bit. The year lengthened and turned. The pile of notes I made grew bigger, and required filing, and grew bigger still. The measurements of crystals, their reaction to musical notes, the shape of facets, whether the light flickered, how long it lasted.  
  
And on one day, when the wind bit more than it should, when the tight mass of clouds blotted the stars, their underbellies gleaming with Laurelin's golden sheen, I sang light into nine crystals and hung them in a chain-mesh net. The light was blue. And the light did not fade.  
  
I waited. We of the Eldar know all angles of patience. The hour-candle on my desk burned down. The blue light did not waver. I felt I sat a vigil, with each breath expecting the blueness to gutter and fade.  
  
I had done it: I had trapped light in crystal, a lesser, more functional light than the Silmarils. A week I left the new lamp hanging in my room, not telling anyone. Every moment I could I ran back to stare at it, to assure myself that I had, in fact, created it, and the light stayed strong and unfading.  
  
There would be no way to turn it off, I knew. In some ways, the temporary lamps we all used were more practical.  
  
Assured I had everything right, I rewrote my formulae onto a fresh vellum sheet, in my finest tengwar, and painstakingly drew diagrams with exact measurements. I tucked them in a leather folio, and bore my lamp down to Fëanor's workshop.  
  
He stood as he had the first time I had entered his workshop, though the gems around him were cabochon rubies, and he was wrestling with thick gold wire. Curlicue links draped over his fingers.  
  
"Mara tuilë, Fëanáro." Good morning. That's exactly how I said it. You hear that? The unnecessary exaggeration? That hint of sarcasm? I am—or was—not given to sarcasm. That was something Fëanor and especially Nerdanel excelled at, something passed to most of their sons—but I rarely indulged. Once, it was not in my nature.  
  
He spun around at once. He did nothing so undignified as gape, but his eyes widened, and he very carefully set down his wirework. "So you caught light in crystals. When will they fade?"  
  
I smiled. "They have not this past week. Here." I handed him the folio, and watched his long, graceful hands open it and riffle through the pages. I continued, "I don't think they will. I think they will shine forever."  
  
"The key was not starlight?" asked Fëanor.  
  
I shrugged. "Perhaps there is a connection between this light and the stars. The key, for me, was music."  
  
"Hmm." I ignored the scepticism in his voice. The proof of my method hung shining from my hands.  
  
He continued perusing my notes, brow furrowed. I stood with my prize, and fought the pain-edged longing for his approval. I was not his son, I reminded myself. I could take pride in my own works. I do not need his thanks or congratulations.  
  
"This is good work," he said finally.  
  
Feeling patronised, I looked at him. When he looked at me, I saw him almost flinch. "Of course it is," he said hastily. Fëanor was no diplomat. "I am... impressed at how thorough this is. I am sorry I doubted you. Would you mind if I kept this, and made my own?"  
  
"Of course not," I said. "That's why you have the finished version. I've enough pages of notes to cover the walls in the Hall of Kindling."  
  
"We will make enough of these lamps to make the Hall of Kindling glow. How marvellous! Light that will never leave. Calmáranë, your hard work will light up every dark place in the world!" And to my surprise, he hugged me tight, as if I were his family and not merely part of his household. I caught in my breath, my arms full of fire and legend. When he let me go, I trembled, and stiffened all over to try and stop it.  
  
"We will sing songs to congratulate you this evening!" he announced.  
  
And they did, for that night and several others. But in time the lamps became common in Valinor, and played their small part in Beleriand—few are left now in Middle-Earth—and everyone knows them as Fëanorian lamps. Fëanor was a bright light that threw a huge shadow, and I was not the only one lost in that obscurity.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued, I suppose?


End file.
